Richey Edwards

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Richey Edwards
| sister wears the barstools thin in the casino smoking pall malls | says she prefers these over other brands because of her last boyfriend the first guy she really loved | I tell her she’s dumb for smoking them in the first place while I hang out on grindr scavenging for the parts of you that turned me on most | mother calls in hysterics over the lack of attention paid to her sacrifices | I bite down but don’t order a drink in fear I’ll become her even after the mastectomy and hormones | even now I wake up sweating from dreams that my voice raises two octaves and the person on the other line can’t tell if it’s me or my mother speaking | sister blows clouds out her nose and single finger punches the touchscreen spin wheel hoping for all cherries | this is what heartache looks like |
Photo by Tim Mossholder
nothing profound
nothing profound
nothing profound
Micah Nemerever, "These Violent Delights"
did it hurt? when you realized that your childhood trauma was going to affect you for the rest of your life and truly changed you as a person and didn’t just give you a good sense of humor?
“I knew I did from the first moment we met. It was… not love at first sight exactly, but- familiarity. Like: oh, hello, it’s you. It’s going to be you.”
— Mhairi McFarlane; You Made Me At Hello
Acoustic, Boston – October 22nd, 2022
Etsy
he’s daddy in all the ways it counts and if i could i would carry all his baggage like a small bellhop. how long until he has swallowed me whole? has he already? i can still smell him on me, feel his hands on the back of my head, fingers woven in my hair. why? why do i fall for so little?
so why am I so afraid of these drugs that I know help me heal?
I’m in the East Village with this almost 50-something graphic designer at his studio. He’s playing music with no words and a heavy beat. He could be a knock off you with his blue eyes and bags underneath. He’s a foot taller than me, and he wants me to call him ‘daddy’, and I’m trying to between slurps on his member but it’s not coming out. You see you’re the last person I called that and I haven’t let myself think of anyone else in that role.
When he finishes he’s going straight for my pants. I kiss him and tell him he has to wait for more. I hightail it out the door, down the stairs before I let myself cry. He’s not you, never was, never will be. He’s a time killer, waster, they all are.
a list of things you don’t know about me so far this year
1. i switched laundry soap
i ran home to wash my entire wardrobe in it to erase you. it didn’t work. i still know which pair of my underwear are your favorite.
2. i bought new bedding
new sheets you’ve never seen or touched, and i was positive i wouldn’t think of you while wrapped in them. it didn’t work.
3. my mom and i are finally not speaking
if i could end one unhealthy relationship that’s lasted over twenty years i can forget about you. it didn’t work.
4. i got a new personal trainer and workout program
see i thought if i could focus more on me i wouldn’t think of you. it didn’t work. you’re not coming back, no matter what.
sometimes if it’s too quiet it’s violent, just like the song says, and i can hear men grunting, moaning, finishing all on loop. i can close my eyes and it’s a rorschach of flesh, and a burning tear in my inner thighs, and the men, all the men pulling me further in two. sweat is pouring and the edges of my brain are becoming frayed until there is nothing behind my eyes. nothing between my ears except the sound of men grunting, moaning, finishing.
Harold Wainwright